


Break the Egg

by Romiress



Series: Walking on Eggshells [1]
Category: Batman: Universe
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Bruce Wayne is Not Batman, Derealization, Intended to be as Canon Compliant as possible, M/M, Mystery, early stages of relationship, struggling with reality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24813328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romiress/pseuds/Romiress
Summary: Bruce Wayne was never Batman: the idea simply never occurred to him, and he carried on his life as usual. But over the years he's had increasingly vivid (and alarming) dreams. Dreams of a pure white egg. Of a ring. Of a man he doesn't recognize.As those dreams become more and more intense, Bruce employs the help of the world's most dangerous mercenary to track down the truth.--Set in the alternate universe depicted in Batman: Universe #6, but doesn't require knowledge of that setting to follow.
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne/Slade Wilson, Oliver Queen & Bruce Wayne
Series: Walking on Eggshells [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1794811
Comments: 72
Kudos: 154





	1. Chapter 1

Bruce Wayne is eight years old when his parents die. They die in an alley in a mugging gone wrong, leaving him alone to pick up the pieces. Overnight, Alfred Pennyworth goes from a loyal butler to the closest thing Bruce has to family, and over the years that becomes more and more cemented.

He's ten years old when he first has the dream. He wakes, distressed (hardly unusual), but the memory of the dream slips away like sand through his fingers. Within a minute, he barely even remembers what woke him, and he goes back to sleep without issue.

When he's twelve, the dream sticks: or at least a fragment of it does. Half-asleep, he writes _egg_ in his journal before falling back asleep, and when he wakes the following morning he squints at it, half-remembering, and finally decides he must have been hungry.

It's the same for the next few years. His dreams are infrequent and broken, slipping away when he wakes. As he gets older, more sticks. He remembers a ring, and a great bearded man, but mostly he remembers the egg, pure white and somehow _important._

He mentions the egg to Alfred once or twice, but unable to explain the importance, he simply ends up changing what he gets for breakfast.

He's an adult before he gets his first break. The dreams come more and more frequently, and they fade away slower each time. He sketches out the egg and part of the man, showing it to Alfred as he searches for some kind of answer. A part of him feels like he's going crazy, but another part of him feels like what he's looking into is _important._

He can't shake that feeling: the feeling that the egg his somehow _vital._

When he shows Alfred the drawing over breakfast (thankfully _not_ eggs), Alfred taps his chin and offers a suggestion for once.

"It looks quite a bit like a Fabergé egg to me."

Bruce has heard the term before, but he doesn't know enough to answer. All he can do is bury himself in his research.

The egg—or what he can remember of it—isn't on the list of known Fabergé eggs, but the style is similar enough. A jeweled egg with a diamond trellis pattern all around it. As far as he can remember, the whole egg is white, which makes it easy enough to exclude almost everything.

"It's probably not a real egg," Alfred points out. "It's just your mind putting images together."

"It's important," Bruce insists, but he doesn't know why.

The dreams become more frequent. In his childhood, they happened once a year at most. In his teens, every few months. As he approaches his late twenties, he dreams almost every night, and the dreams only become more and more vivid. Sometimes he catches glimpses of color—the egg was blue, or maybe green—before everything goes white. Sometimes the egg opens. There's almost always a man, the same man: old and vast, with long black hair. He has scars on his face, but the details always seem to slip away when Bruce tries to remember.

Sometimes he says things, but they don't make any sense. He says that he's waited a long time, that it should have happened years ago.

And then, one single statement: _No one will ever even know you existed._

Once he's heard the words he can't unhear them. Every night, the dream comes back to him, and every time it ends with the same words.

Alfred's concern becomes more and more obvious as time goes on. Bruce's sleep becomes more and more disrupted, and attempts to resolve the problem provide no aid. His dreams are as vivid and unshakable as ever, which drives Alfred to alternative solutions.

"Is it possible this is the egg you're looking for?" Alfred says one day, holding up his phone for Bruce to see. On the screen is an egg that fits the design of the dream-egg almost perfectly: it's a blue-green with a bronze diamond-trellis pattern running around it. Of all the ones Bruce has seen, it fits the closest, and his answer is no doubt obvious from his reaction.

"It was loaned to the Gotham museum of art years ago," Alfred explains, tucking away his phone. "You went to see it with your parents the week before they passed away. I think this might be some... unresolved issues that might be better dealt with by a therapist then sleep aids."

"It doesn't explain the man," Bruce points out. He doesn't know the man. He's sure of it. He'd recognize him if he did.

"You've met thousands of people at parties," Alfred points out. His tone is gentle as he reaches out, taking Bruce's hands in his own. "Your mind wants this to be something more than it is. It's just a dream, Bruce, and it's simply filled in the details with someone you saw before. It doesn't mean anything."

He can tell that it's distressing Alfred, so he tries to put the dream aside.

It's easier said than done. 

It's hard to put the dream out of his mind. It's hard not to let his mind wander back to the man and the egg and the glowing light within. He tries to picture the ring, but it's harder than the egg: the light's too bright for him to see it clearly, the details all washed out.

But he mostly manages until fate intervenes.

It's at a party in Metropolis, hosted by Lex Luthor himself, where Bruce finally sees the man.

From the moment he lays eyes on him, Bruce knows that he's the same man that he sees in his dreams every night. They're identical: the same long black hair, the same scar across his face. The man doesn't appear to pay him any attention, which is sharply at odds with Bruce himself, who can't tear his eyes away.

Bruce grabs Ollie by the sleeve, pulling him over without taking his eyes off the stranger.

"Who's _that?"_ He asks without preamble, and it takes a bit of Ollie squinting and trying to figure out which of the hundred people at the party Bruce is talking about.

"Oh, that's Savage," Ollie says flippantly, and when Bruce shoots him an annoyed look, Ollie clarifies. "That's his _name,_ I'm not calling him a savage. Vandal Savage, he does investing over in Europe or something or other."

For Bruce, the moment feels almost magical. It feels like every part of his entire life has lead up to that exact moment. He strides over to Savage, a feeling he can't name swelling in his chest, and offers his hand.

"Mr. Savage? I'm Bruce Wayne."

Savage pays him almost no attention at all. His eyes sweep over Bruce, taking him in, and then his attention is gone, off on someone else even as he takes Bruce's hand, shaking it once.

Nothing happens.

There's just _nothing._ No sparks. No epiphany. Vandal Savage is just a man. He doesn't know Bruce, and Bruce knows him only through his dreams, which means Alfred is right: he probably saw Savage at a party once and his brain used him to fill in the blanks of the mysterious and poorly defined _man_.

The realization is crushing.

Bruce desperately wants the dreams to stop. He's hoped beyond hope that if he just finds the truth it'll be enough, but of course it isn't.

He leaves the party early, and that night, when he dreams the same dream again, he lashes out, all but destroying his room. When Alfred finds him the following morning, he declares that it's gone too far.

In absolute secrecy, Bruce goes to the best facility money can buy. Within a week, they've found an answer: a drug that knocks him out so firmly he _can't_ dream.

For the first time in years, Bruce sleeps without dreaming, and the following morning he's discharged back to the manor with no one the wiser.

Life feels different without the dreams. He can focus on other things. He can have a _life_ that isn't being constantly overshadowed by an egg and a man and a ring. He goes to parties. He makes new friends.

He lives a life unburdened by his dream.

And for a while, things are good. Bruce hosts galas and gets involved with Wayne Enterprises and does the things he's always wanted to do but struggled with. He feels _normal._

And then everything falls apart.

There's a robbery at Gotham's largest museum. It's something that wouldn't even come up on Bruce's news feed, if not for the fact that he's just hosted a gala there and his name is mentioned in the article. He flips through it, and freezes when he sees what was stolen.

The egg.

It's undeniably the same egg from his dream, the one that was in Gotham right before his parents died. It's taunting him, bringing back everything he's pushed down to the forefront.

He can't turn away.

Bruce is going to find out what the dream means if it goddamn kills him.


	2. Chapter 2

Alfred is a man of many skills, and one of those is networking. Even if it's clear he suspects that Bruce has lost his mind, he can't entirely deny that Bruce is right: something _is_ going on.

They just disagree about what to do about it.

Once Bruce has managed to convince Alfred he's not going to back down, Alfred's happy enough to help, working him through the steps easily enough.

"The theft of the egg from Gotham's museum was undeniably a professional job," Alfred points out. "I spoke to a friend who implicated a criminal known as the Riddler in the theft."

"So how do we find the Riddler?"

"For one, _you_ don't," Alfred says pointedly. "The saying is _set a thief to catch a thief,_ but in this case we don't need a thief, just a professional. Someone who knows the underworld, and whose silence can be bought."

It goes without saying that the fact that Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, is absolutely obsessed with locating a _stolen egg_ isn't something they want to be public.

"I assume you have someone in mind."

"More I have someone in mind who would have someone else in mind. A friend of mine from my army days is involved with that sort of life. I would trust him with my life, and if he trusts the man he's working with, that's more than good enough for me."

Alfred calls his man that afternoon, passing the message along as Bruce waits impatiently.

His first meeting with Deathstroke is far from flattering. Two nights after Alfred makes contact, Bruce is getting himself a drink from the kitchen when a voice speaks from the darkness.

"You called, and I'm here, Wayne."

Only Bruce doesn't hear the whole message. He gets as far as _you_ and then all those years of self-defense training Alfred insisted on come into play. He swings, and the man in the shadows counters, catching his arm and twisting it down. It's a bog-standard and easily countered move, so Bruce simply rotates the way he was taught, twisting out of his attackers grasp.

But the man is fast. Faster than any person should have the right to be. As fast as Bruce gets out of his grip, the man's other hand shoots up, catching him by the throat and hefting him off the ground.

It's, generally speaking, a terrible move. It leaves Bruce's limbs free to knock the shit out of the man, because he's _automatically_ within arm's (and leg's) reach. Holding a person's entire weight is also a considerable strain for the average person.

Deathstroke turns out not to be the average person. Bruce's attempt to break his arm fails completely. He also doesn't seem to be showing any sign of strain as he holds Bruce's entire body weight in one hand.

So Bruce opts to take more extreme measures.

Rather than kicking Deathstroke in the crotch (he almost _definitely_ has a cup protecting his family jewels), he uses the fact that he's dangling to swing his weight, getting him the momentum he needs to get his legs around Deathstroke's torso, giving him some stability. His neck is screaming in agony, but the move is apparently disorienting enough that Deathstroke's grip loosens ever so slightly, letting Bruce jerk his head free.

Which means his torso is _completely_ unsupported, which causes the two of them to go toppling to the floor.

It was never a fight he was going to win. Deathstroke's heavily armored and Bruce is wearing nothing but his sleeping pants, his slippers having fallen off sometime mid-fight. Deathstroke also apparently has super speed and super strength, and the only thing _super_ about Bruce is his taste in pastries.

Which is why when Deathstroke rolls them—pinning Bruce from behind, his hand on the back of Bruce's neck—and speaks, it comes across as a _big_ relief.

"I'm not here to kill you, you idiot," Deathstroke snaps, and Bruce allows himself to go still (helped by the fact that Deathstroke weighs more than two hundred pounds and is very nearly crushing him). "I'm going to get off you, and you're _not_ going to take a swing at me, or else I'm going to break something you don't want broken, got it?"

Bruce nods. It seems like the sensible thing to do.

Having the weight off his back is a relief, since he's no longer in immediatele danger, but Bruce knows Alfred is going to have a fit anyway. His throat is already aching, and without question the bruises on his throat are going to be large and obvious, to say nothing of the ones on his back. He feels like he just went ten rounds with a boxer as he drags himself to his feet, the mercenary responsible staring at him with his arms folded.

Bruce thinks he's probably glaring, but it's impossible to tell. His right eye is completely hidden behind what looks like (but probably isn't) a transparent mask, while the left has an obvious lens. He's impossible to read beyond obvious body language tells, and Bruce feels deeply exposed without the same sort of defense.

"As I was saying before you decided to try and kill me, I'm here because your man contacted _my_ man, Wayne."

Oh.

Well, that makes things a lot easier.

"If I was going to kill you, you wouldn't have even known I was here," Deathstroke adds, making things a lot less so.

Bruce folds his arms over his chest, using his considerable self control to not just glare at the bastard in front of him.

"Good to know," Bruce mutters under his breath. "Can we get to the point, or do you enjoy standing around in my kitchen while I freeze my ass off?"

He might be exaggerating a bit, but the house _is_ chilly, and he _is_ under-dressed for company. Bruce doesn't miss the way Deathstroke's head tips, almost as if his eyes are roaming up and down his body.

No, he doesn't like that _at all._

"I was told you had a job for me. That you wanted the best. So here I am."

Bruce would love to contest that he isn't the best, but that would be a waste of time. He doesn't consider himself at all familiar with the goings on of the underworld, but _everyone_ knows who Deathstroke is.

"I have terms," Bruce says flatly. He's not just going to agree because Deathstroke's famous.

"Most people do. State them, and lets get on with it since you're so eager."

The terms, at the very least, come easily.

"One, you only work for me while the contract is underway. I'm not going to have you splitting time and doing other jobs that could potentially implicate me. Two, no mask while you're working with me."

"My identity is confidential."

"One of us is world famous billionaire. I'm already putting myself at risk by making any sort of contract with you, and I'd like some sort of collateral. The least you can do is show your face."

"Hmmm," Deathstroke says, cocking his head. "I expected you to give in. I suppose it's only fair."

Bruce doesn't know what sort of person he's expecting before the mask comes off, but it's not as if what he sees is _strange._ The missing eye is vaguely unexpected, as is the man's age. He's old—easily sixty—with pure white hair. His beard is at the very least well-kept, although Bruce suspects that's only because anything longer would get in the way of his mask.

"Slade Wilson," he says, offering his hand to Bruce. Bruce squints a moment before reaching out to take it. "Now lets get to my favorite part: compensation."

Slade's wide, eager smile makes it painfully clear to Bruce that he isn't going to enjoy it.


	3. Chapter 3

Slade fleeces Bruce for every dollar possible before he'll even talk about the job. He knows what Bruce is worth, and there's no point in trying to pretend like he can't afford it. What the job is doesn't even really matter: what Bruce is paying for is Slade's skill and discretion.

Everything else is a bonus.

Slade waits until the deposit is in his account before he turns to Bruce, reclining casually in Bruce's office chair, and gets to the heart of the matter.

"So who do you want dead?"

"No one," Bruce says with a roll of his eyes. "If I wanted someone _dead_ I could deal with someone much cheaper."

Slade silently quirks an eyebrow, and Bruce lets out a weary sigh and explains.

"Just under a week ago, someone robbed Gotham's largest museum. They bypassed all the security put into place and stole one single item: a jeweled egg on loan from the Fabergé museum in Russia."

"All this for an egg? Commission someone to make a new one."

Bruce doesn't dwell on Slade's apparent lack of respect for antiques.

"I specifically want _that_ egg. I also want to know why someone went to such effort to get it. The egg's been displayed in other much less secure locations relatively recently, and security here was only just upgraded. Similarly, the fact that they completely ignored everything else in the museum tells me that there's something important about that egg in particular."

"You've done your homework," Slade notes. "I assume you know who was behind it?"

Bruce doesn't, but he's not going to _say_ that.

"Nothing concrete, which is where you come into play. I need you to figure that all out."

"And if I just get the egg?"

"The job's not just for the egg," Bruce says pointedly. "I want to know the _why_ as well."

"The wealthy always have to make jobs so complicated," Slade says, but he's already getting to his feet, grabbing his mask and getting ready to go. "I'll look into things. I should have an initial report for you within twenty-four hours."

"Show up during the day, when I'm wearing _clothes,"_ Bruce snaps. He doesn't doubt Slade can easily get through manor security, but Bruce does _not_ want to accidentally take a swing at him again. He's sore, and the bruises haven't even finished forming.

"Day after tomorrow, then," Slade says with a wave of his hand.

Bruce doesn't get a chance to tell Alfred what's happened the following morning. The moment he emerges, his neck literally purple with hand-shaped bruises, Alfred's nearly beside himself with worry, not letting Bruce get a word in edgewise. Notably, he makes no attempt to ask Bruce who's responsible, apparently having already figured it out for himself.

"Wintergreen _will_ be hearing about this," Alfred says as he tends to the bruising on Bruce's back. "It's completely, disgustingly unprofessional to attack a client, no matter what line of work you're in."

"It was a misunderstanding," Bruce points out. He's not sure why he feels the need to defend Slade, but he _does_ feel at least partially responsible for what happened. "He startled me, and I made good use of all that training you insisted on."

"And lost," Alfred notes, and Bruce lets out a hiss of pain as Alfred presses a cold pack to one of the larger bruises. "You'll have to stay inside and cancel any appointments. If anyone sees you like this, it would be... quite unfortunate."

"What was on my schedule?"

"Lunch with Ms. Capri. Dinner was intended to be left open, as Mr. Queen implied he would be in Gotham either tonight or tomorrow."

Perfect.

"Can you handle Amelia, and I'll call Ollie?"

Alfred's expression is unimpressed, and Bruce can't blame him. It's far from the first time he's flaked on Amelia, and usually his reasons are less important.

Ollie is understanding, although clearly confused as to why Bruce is having to cancel. Bruce isn't going to give him the truth (hiring a mercenary, even for a good reason, is generally frowned upon, _especially_ by Ollie himself), so he keeps things nice and vague as he lets Ollie know he won't be able to make it.

There's a very real possibility that someone might notice he's cancelling all his plans, but one or two days won't be significant enough to draw too much attention.

From there, it's just a matter of waiting. He does his own research, but there's limits on what he can do. He doesn't have the connections someone like Deathstroke would.

But it's good to have some information in mind. _Never ask a question you don't know the answer to,_ and all that.

Deathstroke—Slade—shows up at the house just before lunch. Bruce has absolutely no idea how he got in—or how he managed to bypass the manor's security—but he decides that's simply what he's going to have to deal with in order to employ the most competent mercenary in the world.

Bruce is in his office when Slade knocks, and he looks up from his desk for only a moment before waving the man in.

"I hope you have something impressive for me, with what you're costing me," Bruce says without looking up. He can hear Slade walk across the room, and then there's the tell tall _thwap_ of a file folder being dropped on his desk.

"I thought you might be the kind of person who wants an actual file," Slade says dryly as Bruce looks up, regarding the file with detached interest.

"You'd be wrong. The less physical evidence that we know each other, the better. You can dispose of that and make a verbal report instead."

"I'm hoping you have a good memory."

Bruce's memory is serviceable most of the time, but when push comes to shove, he knows how to memorize something.

This is too important: he's not going to forget.

"Your original source was right. The egg was taken by The Riddler, aka Edward Nygma, Edward Nashton, and about a half dozen other names, most of which are extremely pretentious. The Riddler is one of those criminals with an shtick, and his is—"

"Let me guess, riddles?"

"I didn't know you were a genius, Wayne," Slade says dryly. His mask is off, and he's decided to lean casually against the wall of Bruce's office as he shares his information. "You can always tell which jobs are personal for him, because he'll leave riddles and bait the police into trying to solve them. Most jobs that _don't_ have riddles are ones he's doing on behalf of someone who's convinced him not to try and taunt the police."

"No riddle, which means someone hired him. I assume you have some sort of a lead?"

"I have several, but none I want to name until I'm sure. What I can tell you is that Riddler caught a private flight out of Gotham before getting cheap and flying commercially. His final destination was Amsterdam, which is where he made the sale. I have a short list of prospective buyers, but I'll need to do some on the ground scouting to be sure."

Which means a trip to Europe.

"Should I assume you're going to want _more_ money to fund this trip?" Bruce asks. He feels like he's being fleeced, so he's thrown off when he glances up and finds that not only is Slade no longer leaning against the wall, but he's somehow managed to wind up leaning over Bruce's desk all without Bruce even hearing him move.

Bruce doesn't jump, even if he wants to, and Slade smirks in response.

"No, although I certainly wouldn't decline more cash. Your existing funds are more than enough to cover a quick jaunt to Europe."

Bruce is almost afraid to ask, but he asks anyway.

"Then what is it you want, exactly?"

Everything about Slade's body language makes it clear he wants _something._ He's leaning over Bruce like a wolf leans over a sheep, and Bruce has a sneaking suspicion that whatever it is Slade wants, it isn't just money.

"I was just thinking that you're my type."

What.

Of all the things Slade could have said, _that_ was not the one Bruce was expecting. He was expecting _let me borrow your jet_ or maybe _I think we should talk about compensation for not bringing you up._

Not... _that._

"Your... type?" Bruce says, because he almost can't believe what he's hearing.

"Physically. Mentally, for that matter. It takes a lot of balls to even _try_ to fight me, and yet that's exactly what you did. You thought _Deathstroke_ had been sent to kill you, and rather than rolling over you decided to make me work for it."

Bruce's brain can't stop looping. It can't stop replaying _you're my type_ over and over again, because... what? The fact that Slade even _has_ a type feels absurd. He feels like he should be some sexless killing machine, not someone who's _flirting_ with him.

"I'm your employer," Bruce says, struggling to keep his tone perfectly even. "It would be inappropriate."

"The whole reason for that rule is because the employer is supposed to have _power_ over their employee, Bruce. I think we can both agree that isn't how things are with us."

No kidding. Realistically speaking, Slade's the one with veto power in the relationship. He's the one who could break Bruce's neck with a flick of his wrist. Even if it's Bruce's money, Slade's the one with the power.

"So really," Slade continues, leaning in ever so slightly, "the question isn't _is this allowed._ It's _are you interested._ You just said a whole lot, and yet at no point did you say you weren't actually interested."

He hasn't. He hasn't, and Bruce can't figure out why. He should say no. Slade's easily twenty years his senior, and an _impossibly_ dangerous man on top of that. Even being in the same room as him is a risk, and yet having Slade in his space is making Bruce's heart beat that much faster.

His mouth goes dry at the realization, and Slade only smiles that much more.

 _Can he hear my heart beat?_ Bruce wonders to himself before deciding that the answer is yes.

It certainly explains the smirk, anyway.

"You should be finding Riddler," Bruce says after what feels like forever. He just needs to focus on the job. Everything else is... maybe not _unimportant,_ but at least less so. Slade straightens up in response, still leering down at him, and then cracks his neck, stretching out as if to show himself off.

"Of course, _boss._ I'll go figure out who he sold the egg too. You can expect to hear back from me in a few days, but... don't wait up."

Bruce knows he's going to, and he hates it.


	4. Chapter 4

Bruce tries his absolute hardest to not think about Slade in the following days, but it's easier said than done. His bruises linger even when the worst is healed over, and every time he lies down he has a slap-in-the-face reminder of what happened that he can't escape from.

He catches Ollie two nights later, although he's surprised the man's still in Gotham. He's always been flighty, coming and going as he pleases, and if Bruce is being honest with himself, talking with Ollie feels almost painful.

His mind keeps wandering. He keeps thinking of the egg. About who might have taken it. About why they might have.

Being absentminded and thinking of other things is rude, but Ollie generally wouldn't mind.

Or at least he wouldn't if Bruce hadn't abruptly become fixated on something behind him.

It's Vandal Savage, cutting his way across the restaurant towards him. His arrival is surprising, but not as much as when Vandal simply walks through a waitress as if she isn't there, holds something up, and vanishes.

"Bruce?" Ollie asks. "You just went white as a sheet."

He isn't sure how to answer. He's not sure what to say. He can't even wrap his head around what he just saw: Vandal Savage, there as if he were actually _there,_ only now he's not.

A ghost? A vision?

A waking dream?

"Sorry," Bruce blurts, pushing himself to his feet and fumbling with his wallet. "Something just came up. I really have to go, but I'll call you soon, alright?"

Ollie gawks, and Bruce feels a stab of regret, but he knows he doesn't have the time to focus on maintaining the facade. He just saw something that he shouldn't have been able to see, and he can't just make himself pretend like he didn't.

He makes it to the street before Ollie catches up to him, catching his wrist before he can make it to his car.

"Bruce! What the hell is going on? You're acting crazy."

Bruce knows he could tear his arm away, but he makes himself hold still. If he does, Ollie's going to think he's lost it, and he has too few real friends to throw that friendship away.

Bruce Wayne knows everyone, but almost no one _knows_ Bruce Wayne. Ollie is one of the few, but even he doesn't know everything.

"I don't even know where to start, Ollie. I want to say I'm losing my mind, but I'm not sure I ever had it in the first place."

Ollie, who has sense for once, herds Bruce into the back of his car for some privacy. It's only once they're inside that he looks Bruce over. The bruises are all hidden, but Ollie's been around him long enough to know that something's off.

"I'd say you're acting odd, but you already know you are. I just want to know what the hell's going on Bruce."

He really, really doesn't know where to start. He learned, fairly early on, not to talk about the dreams. Not to talk about his constantly strained grasp on reality.

But he tries anyway.

"I've been having dreams," he admits. "Since I was a kid, actually." He can see Ollie's smile, can tell exactly what he's going to say, and beats him to the punch. "The exact same dream. At first it was just once a year or every few months, but now it's every night. It screwed up my sleep, and..." He knows he sounds crazy, but he doesn't know of any alternatives. If Ollie cuts him off for it...

Well, then that's just what has to happen.

"I just had a... a waking dream, I guess. I saw part of it play out in front of me."

Oliver's eyebrows keep rising, his expression of surprise almost comical if not for the seriousness of the situation.

"You... hallucinated your dream? What's the dream?"

What the hell is he even supposed to say to that? He takes a second to compose himself, and then he tries for the truth.

"It's... hard to put together. The dream always fades before I can write it all down, but... There's a jeweled egg, and it's important. I have to get it, but when I do something goes wrong. I'm left standing in a place and there's someone standing by me. There's something flying around in the air, and there's... there's a man, and he has a ring, and he... starts to glow." He _knows_ it sounds crazy, but he forges ahead anyway. "Everything becomes pure white light, and then he... grabs me by my shirt, I guess. He's talking, but I can never remember what he says. Something about how I was in his way, and then he says 'No one will ever even know you existed'."

Ollie stares at him, and then awkwardly clears his throat.

"And then?"

"That's it. The dream ends, and I wake up."

"And you... saw that? In the restaurant?"

Ollie's doing a poor job of hiding his skepticism, but Bruce at least knows how mad it sounds. How absurd. How... unhinged.

"No, I just... I saw the man. He looks like— you remember that party we were at? The big man, Vandal Savage? My brain makes the man look like him."

"Is that why you acted off that night?" Ollie asks, leaning back in the seat. "You left the party early, and you _never_ do that. And you were strange all night."

"I thought it was important," Bruce says, desperate to defend himself. "I thought it was significant because it was the man I'd been seeing in my dreams, but I... I don't even know, Ollie. And now someone's stolen it."

"It."

"The egg. The egg from my dream that's important. It was in a museum in Gotham and someone stole it earlier this week."

Oliver squints at him. Bruce is pretty sure everything he's just said is _very_ worthy of squinting, but he feels irritated anyway.

"That was... a lot," Oliver finally says. "But Bruce... please don't think I'm being patronizing when I say this, but I've seen a _lot_ of strange things. A lot of things that don't make sense, or shouldn't. Weird things. So I.. I don't think you're crazy, Bruce. Not about this. Maybe about your taste in women, though."

It's a joke, but Bruce doesn't feel like laughing, and Ollie abandons it quickly enough.

"Do you want me to look into it?"

That catches Bruce off guard, and he blinks at Ollie stupidly for a few moments, trying to understand what he just heard.

"To... look into it?"

"Well, Savage, for one. But also that stolen egg of yours. I know some people who might be able to help. Maybe they'll know something. Who knows... maybe the egg's magic or something."

It's not a very good joke, but it's better than what he's currently got, so Bruce manages a weak smile in response.

"Sure," he finally says. He doesn't see any harm in asking, and it's not as if Ollie and Slade are going to be running in the same circles. Ollie isn't likely to find anything, but maybe he knows someone who knows how to hire Riddler or something of the sort.

It's better than nothing.

Ollie slaps him on the shoulder, and Bruce feels some of the tension ease out of his body.

Ollie knows. Ollie knows and doesn't think (or at least won't admit to it) he's crazy.

"Thanks," he says after a moment. "It... it means a lot that you have my back on this, Ollie."

"It's pretty obviously been stressing you out. If I'd known you were this bothered about it, I'd have shaken you down for the truth earlier. You can talk to me about things, alright?"

Knowing there's at least one person other than Alfred he can talk to is an immense feeling of relief. It means he has at least one person in his corner. One real, genuine friend.

Bruce tells himself that's all he'll need in the days to come, but he already knows he's lying.


	5. Chapter 5

When Slade doesn't show up the next day, Bruce tries not to dwell on it. He's probably busy. He's probably working.

When Slade doesn't show up the day after that, or even the one after that, Bruce starts to worry.

After a week with zero contact, Alfred convinces Bruce to trim down his beard (it's getting out of hand in his distracted state) and attend a party so that people don't think he's dead. It's a small, low-key affair just in Gotham, but it'll be enough to avoid drawing attention anyway.

As much as Bruce is less than enthusiastic about going out in public with the ever-present chance of hallucinating again, he can't help but feel a bit of relief to be behaving _normally._ No insane schemes. No super-powered mercenaries. Just him, formal wear, and a few hundred of Gotham's wealthiest.

Or that's the plan right up until, midway through the party, someone taps his back.

Bruce turns, expecting Eiko, or maybe Harvey, and instead finds _Slade._

Slade in a goddamn suit, with a glass of champagne in one hand.

There's no eye-patch—he's got some sort of prosthetic—and his hair and beard are a chestnut brown rather than the usual white, but it's unmistakably him.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Bruce hisses under his breath as the two of them slip towards the wall, away from the center of the open hall. As much as he's happy to know that Slade isn't dead, the fact that Slade is talking to him _in public_ is damned unacceptable.

"Are you aware your house is being watched?" Slade asks, his voice low, and Bruce pauses, because no, he most certainly _did not._

"By who?"

"An excellent question which I don't know the answer to. They nearly caught me, so I had to back out, and I haven't been able to catch sight of them again. _Someone_ is paying you a great deal of attention, and someone is also following my trail. My source in Amsterdam was approached the day after I left."

It's another alarming hint at... something.

Because that's the simple truth: Bruce has no idea what it _means._ There are implications, but Bruce has absolutely no idea what they're implying, which makes the whole thing that much more impossible.

"And what did you learn?"

Bruce doesn't want to do this at a party, but if his house is being surveilled, it might be his only option. Better to get it over with.

"Riddler stole the egg on behalf of a very dangerous man," Slade says. They're close enough that Slade's shoulder brushes his, and Bruce _immediately_ thinks back to Slade's offer all those days ago. "You're aware of metahumans, I assume?"

"Hard not to be."

It's not as if they're everywhere, but as far as Bruce is concerned only lunatics deny that they exist at all.

"Well, the buyer is most likely a metahuman from what I know of him. He's old: he might actually be part neanderthal."

Bruce turns just to squint at him. A _neanderthal?_

"I mean that literally," Slade says, almost defensive. "Vandar Adg claims to be more then ten thousand years old, and I can verify he's at least eight hundred for sure. Most likely he's telling the truth. He's immortal, or damn near close to it, and extremely dangerous. The fact that you both happen to want the same _egg_ means there's something important about it you aren't telling me."

In his mind's eye, Bruce can see him: Vandal Savage. The man in his dreams. A man who is, assuming the name isn't a coincidence, some kind of immortal caveman.

Who now has the _egg_ from his dreams.

There's no way it's a coincidence.

"I think the egg might be connected to a ring," Bruce says simply, because that's about the only thing he can say for sure.

"Cryptic."

"That's what I know. I'm operating off incomplete information, which is why you're involved at all. Do we have any information beyond that?"

"Riddler likely knows more. The next step would be questioning him."

"Bring him here."

Bruce isn't sure why he says it. There's no real _need_ for him to be involved. Slade could do it and report back without any sort of issue, but for some reason Bruce feels almost compelled to assist. A part of it is a desire to get his hands dirty, to remind himself that he's involved. To not be one of those wealthy people letting others do their dirty work and keeping their own hands clean.

But a larger part of it is simply that he desperately, _absolutely_ needs to know what's going on as fast as possible.

Out of the corner of his eye, something white zips across the room before vanishing. A ring? An egg? It doesn't matter. What does is that he's seeing things more and more, fragments of dreams. Whatever is happening, it's happening that much faster.

Bruce feels like he's on a train that's had the breaks cut, and the only thing that brings him back to reality is a light touch to his side. He jumps, head spinning, but it's just Slade who he'd very nearly forgot was there.

"You look terrible as a brunette," Bruce mutters, and Slade laughs at him for it.

"Stay with reality here, Bruce. You want me to bring him here? To Gotham?"

"Find a place. I'm sure you can figure it out." Obviously not at his house, which would be a spectacularly terrible idea, but _nearby._

Slade _hmms_ thoughtfully, and for one brief, lovely moment, Bruce thinks he's going to say something _topical_ and _important._

"You look nice in a waistcoat," Slade says, and Bruce scowls at him, fighting the urge to blush and doing a poor job of it.

"Focus, Slade," Bruce mutters. "You have a job to do."

"Oh, there's certainly something I'd like to do..."

If his words weren't obvious enough, the way Slade is looking at him like a chunk of meat makes it painfully clear.

"We're in public," Bruce hisses, and Slade smiles in just such a way that Bruce _knows_ he's played right into the older man's hands.

"Ah, so you'd be fine with it if we _weren't_ in public?"

Fuck.

"Go find Riddler and stop wasting time, Slade," Bruce says. Someone in the distance says _no one will ever even know you existed_ and Bruce feels a phantom hand grabbing his shirt.

He wants it to be over. He's just so, _so_ tired.

"Go home, Bruce," Slade says. "Your heart keeps going all fluttery, and that has nothing to do with my flirting."

"You've got a job to do," Bruce says again. "I'm sure you know how to get into contact me once it's done."

He doesn't want to think. He wants to go home. But he also doesn't want to let Slade win, so he simply shakes his head.

"I'll stay. You have your job, and I have mine."

Bruce just hopes he's strong enough to make it through.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full credit: This fic is an expansion from four specific pages of Batman Universe, and the dialog from 'That's him?' to 'Convince him we're sincere' is paraphrased from the comic itself.

Bruce knows that things are going to get worse before they get better, and he's proven right before the night is out. The waking dreams—hallucinations, really—are a constant, unavoidable thing.

It's a confusing mishmash. The egg. Vandal Savage. A ring, big and bulky and pure, pure white, so white it's not even a color, almost just _light._

And the words, of course. The words that make no sense to him. That have no meaning, beyond that he knows, without question, that they must be important.

Alfred frets over him when he returns home, and it's obvious to Bruce how much he's worrying. He hates it. He doesn't want Al worrying over him, but he doesn't know how to make it stop, either.

He's so desperate for it to be done.

He spends the rest of the night in bed, and a good portion of the following day as well. He can tell where the dream ends and reality begins, but he's becoming increasingly nervous that he might slip up: that he might lose track of which is which.

It's a terrifying prospect.

He's so lost in the idea that he doesn't even hear Alfred until he's knocked twice. Only then does he sit upright, taking a moment to scrub at his face before calling him in.

"I'm up."

"I was starting to worry," Alfred says, his expression serious. "You didn't answer your phone, and Mister Wilson was forced to contact me to see if something had happened."

"He called you?" Bruce asks, sitting up that much straighter. He'd have preferred if Slade and Alfred had never spoken, but it's too late to go back.

"He did. He indicated that him coming to the house would be a poor decision, but would not elaborate on why. He asked that I give you an address and recommend that you arrive in something that would attract as little attention as possible."

Bruce doesn't wait around to explain to Alfred why Slade didn't just stop by the house. He's out the door as fast as he possibly can, his heart in his throat.

Slade must have found him. With Riddler, they'll be able to find Vandal Savage. With him, they'll be able to find the egg.

And then... well, Bruce hasn't figured out that part.

The address Slade gave Alfred is a warehouse not far from the Gotham's docks. It looks abandoned, which just makes it one of hundreds. Nothing special. Nothing to draw attention. Bruce parks the work truck he's driving just out of sight, and gets out to find Slade watching him.

He's in full armor, standing on the second floor landing. He's hidden from the street, and he beckons Bruce up with a wave of his hand.

"You should wear a mask," Slade says when Bruce reaches him.

"I don't have one, and I don't need one," Bruce says with a wave of his hand. "I'm not recognizable." Bruce Wayne might be, but he doesn't really look like Bruce Wayne right then. He's in a black suit with nice black leather gloves, and his hair's too long to pass for Bruce Wayne. For that matter, Bruce Wayne doesn't usually have a beard, and even if Riddler _does_ work around Gotham, there's no way he's going to draw the connection.

"He's going to recognize you," Slade says flatly. "Are you going to let me do my job, or are you going to insist on handling things yourself?"

"I do, in fact, insist," Bruce grunts. He's not incompetent. He can handle things.

"Suit yourself."

Slade draws his sword—an astoundingly pointless gesture—and they head inside.

The warehouse is just a warehouse. It doesn't even look particularly secure, but from what he's read the Riddler isn't a particularly dangerous foe. The man in question is slumped over slightly, tied loosely to a chair with a bag over his head.

Really, Bruce thinks it's sort of embarrassing he didn't escape in the few minutes Slade was outside waiting for him.

"That's him? Wake him up."

"He _is_ awake," Slade replies, and he's proven right when the Riddler splutters under the bag.

"Awake, and rather angry!" He protests. There's something almost musical about his voice, but Bruce is having a hard time focusing on it as he stands back, watching Slade stride forward, pulling the bag off Riddler's head.

"Dear Lord! Have you never heard of professional courtesy? That isn't one of my riddles, Deathstroke, I really want to know."

Slade's sword is suddenly _glowing._ It's not as if it's on fire, because there's no flames leaking off it. But it looks extremely hot and appears to be giving off some sort of energy.

Bruce knows he definitely wouldn't want to be stabbed by it, so when Slade levels the sword with Riddler's face, he has to reisst the urge to cringe openly.

"I'm not a thief like you, Riddler. I'm for hire, and I was paid a _lot_ of money to hunt you down and bring you here to Gotham."

Slade's statement tells Bruce two important things. One: Riddler was someplace other than Gotham. Two: However Slade got him there, Riddler either already knows roughly where he is, or Slade simply doesn't care. Bruce guesses the latter: the Riddler's too wanted to go to police. Realistically, even if he _was_ kidnapped there's nothing he can really do about it.

"Gotham? Slade, if the roles were reversed—" The tip of Slade's sword dips closer, and Bruce can see the beads of sweat forming on Riddler's face. "—I would have given you a heads up, and—"

"Where is Vandal Savage?" Bruce asks, interrupting the rambling. Riddler's eyes are fixed on the sword, and they only come up as Bruce stalks forward, continuing his questioning. "You recently stole an antique egg out of the Gotham Museum. We know you sold it to an immortal maniac named Vandal Savage in Amsterdam. Where is Vandal Savage now?"

"What the hell?" Riddler says, recognition in his eyes.

Crap.

Of _course_ Riddler recognizes him, even with the beard. It seems like such a stupid risk to take, and probably the most obvious sign that he's not entirely in his right mind. He does what he can to cover, hoping to distract Riddler from the obvious conclusion he just reached, his voice dipping slightly lower; more of a growl.

"Tell me right now, and I won't need to pay Slade his torture bonus."

"Are— Holy shit! Are you Bruce Wayne?"

The only consolation is that Slade is behind him, which spares Bruce from having to look at Slade's no doubt smug _I told you so._

"No, I'm not." Bruce says, before realizing that it's a stupid thing to say and ignoring it. "Where is Vandal Savage? He also goes by Vandar Adg."

"This... is weird," Riddler says, looking less terrified and more confused.

Desperate times.

"Slade, convince him we're sincere."

The tip of Slade's sword presses into Riddler's shoulder, and the man before him clenches his jaw hard, trying to ride out the pain.

"What— what makes you think he'd even tell me where he was going?"

For a moment, Bruce doesn't know. Mentally, it doesn't track. Why _would_ Vandal Savage tell him?

And then he knows.

"He told you so that when I came to ask you, you'd know what to tell me."

Bruce is absolutely certain. He knows in a way that defies explanation, even as _no one will ever even know you existed_ echoes in his ears. Riddler knows.

"How in the hell—" Riddler starts, staring at him in utter bafflement. "Whatever game the two of you are playing, keep me out of it."

Slade withdraws the sword, and Riddler, indignant, straightens up a bit. He's obviously still in pain, but the immediate threat over, he's clearly trying to maintain some of his dignity as he describes the location.

Not an address, because Vandal doesn't live at a place _roads_ go to, but an island: an island with a castle on it, isolated from the wider world.

Bruce knows the egg is there: he just has to reach it, and then he knows he'll finally get the answers he seeks.


	7. Chapter 7

To Riddler's intense displeasure, he ends the night in the trunk of Slade's car. Information gathered, his presence is no longer necessary, and Bruce doesn't see a point in keeping him around, so he leaves it to Slade to handle.

Bruce himself waits on the fire escape, watching as Slade does his business. He feels... strange. Unlike himself. He just saw Slade torture a man—hell, he participated!—and he felt nothing.

It's like everything in his life is falling away. The only thing that really matters is the egg. The egg and the ring and _Vandal Fucking Savage,_ who's apparently both a murderous caveman _and_ a collector of jeweled antique eggs.

Who knew?

"You need help," Slade says, suddenly beside Bruce, "and I don't mean my kind of help."

"You're not here to be my therapist."

"I'm not. In fact, you haven't really explained why I'm here at all. Normally I'm not a questions kind of guy, but there's something about this situation you aren't telling me, and I can't help but feel there's a high likelihood it's going to get me killed."

Slade leans against the railing beside Bruce, and Bruce makes himself look away.

He doesn't owe Slade anything, but Slade's been honest enough with him. He's been up front about what he wants (mostly money, but apparently also Bruce himself), and what he needs (again, more money), and Bruce hasn't told him a damn thing.

"And for the record, you dropped this."

Slade's hand flashes, and suddenly there's a small pill bottle grasped between gloved fingers.

 _Bruce's_ pill bottle.

Bruce reacts, hand darting forward to grab the bottle. Slade doesn't pull away, but his grip is like iron, and Bruce can't wrench the bottle free for the first few seconds. Only once Bruce knows, without question, that Slade has seen the bottle does he release it, letting Bruce return it safely to the inside jacket pocket where it was supposed to stay.

Bruce's face burns. He _shouldn't_ be ashamed. God knows he's given enough speeches about the importance of mental health care while dumping money into Gotham's terrible, dilapidated system. But those were nice words, intended to soothe the masses. This is something else entirely. This is about _him._

He isn't expecting Slade to reach up, pulling off his helmet, nor is he expecting the serious look that Slade gives him. For once, there's nothing joking in his tone or mannerisms: he's dead serious.

"I know what they prescribe that for, Bruce. I'm not going to drag it out of you. I'm not going to make you talk about it. But you just implied that Savage _knew_ you'd be after him. Savage is dangerous enough when we're catching him off guard, and if he knows we're coming..."

Slade's expression is intense, and when Bruce doesn't answer, he nudges.

"I need to know if he's expecting us."

Bruce's mouth is so, _so_ dry.

"I don't know," he admits. "There is... a lot about this situation I don't know. I guessed, with Riddler."

"Well, you guessed right," Slade replies, but he looks like he thinks Bruce is bullshitting him. Maybe he is. He can't tell, and the sight of something small, glowing, and white zipping by doesn't help things. He tries to ignore it, but his eyes flick to follow it anyway, and Slade's eye narrows in response.

"I know you're going to play the _I'm your boss_ card, but Bruce, you've becoming more and more erratic since we met. You're looking at things that aren't there, you're spacing out..."

"I _am_ your boss," Bruce says desperately. He wants the conversation to stop. He wants it to be over.

"And I'm not saying this as your employee. I did my tours overseas. I've seen people reacting like you are. I'm doing it for my payday: if you crack, I'm not going to get the rest of the money you owe me."

Bruce isn't sure he believes that.

"I don't have PTSD," Bruce says flatly. He knows his medication might indicate otherwise, but that's not what it is.

Slade folds his arms over his chest, his expression flipped right back to _unimpressed._

"I'm not here to split hairs or diagnose you, Bruce. I need to know what the situation is before I continue this. I need to know what to expect, or else Savage is going to cut me in two. Right now you have that information and you aren't sharing it, and that's something that needs to stop. I _need_ to know what we're dealing with."

Bruce doesn't know how to respond. It's not a motivational speech—not by a long shot—but he can't deny that Slade is right. He isn't seeing things clearly. He's not looking at things impartially.

"You might as well get it over with," Slade says, "because at some point I _am_ going to find out, and it'd be a hell of a lot easier if you just told me."

God _damnit._

"I... have dreams. Dreams about this: about the egg we're after, and about Vandal Savage. I've been having these dreams since I was a kid, and when I first saw him I thought it was my brain connecting dots that shouldn't have been connected, but it's not, because... because this." Bruce waves his hand around, well aware it probably makes him look crazy. "Because Vandal Savage _just so happened_ to steal the exact egg I've been dreaming of. Because he told Riddler where I'd be."

"What's the dream, then?" Bruce makes himself look at Slade's expression, but it's nearly impossible to read.

"I don't know. The details... they're vague. I know there's an egg, and it starts to glow. I think there's a ring inside the egg, and the ring is really important for some reason. I think... I think Vandal Savage wants the egg. And—"

He pauses, checking Slade's reaction. He's expecting disbelief. Maybe that he'll be on the verge of a laugh. But Slade is still, at least as far as Bruce can tell, taking things seriously, and that's all he needs to finish saying it.

"And then he says... No one will ever even know you existed."

Slade _hmmms_ pointedly, considering what he's just heard. Bruce wishes he was easier to read, because the entire experience is nerve-wracking.

"You're seeing this? Even when awake?"

"I am now. It's a recent thing. It's why I knew it was... important."

It's how he knew it was _real._

Slade _hmms_ again.

"You aren't giving me much to work off," Bruce admits. He hates the silence. He wishes Slade would just get it over with already. Just eviscerate him with _you're crazy_ or _you can keep your money._

He's not sure he can handle either.

"The nice thing about not giving a shit is that it works both ways," Slade says. His tone is dry, unemotive, and Bruce doesn't know what to expect from it. "Sure, I'm not going to cry over your hurt feelings, but I'm not going to get on your case for it, either. You've given me enough information to know what I should expect, even if there's a lot of details I'm still missing. So that's enough."

Bruce isn't sure why he says it. He doesn't _mean_ to, but the words just come out all on their own.

"I think it might be real."

Slade raises an eyebrow, silently questioning what the _hell_ Bruce is talking about, and the words pour fourth.

"I think my dream might be real. I think it might be something that already happened, maybe when I was a boy. Or... in a past life, or in another world. Maybe it's _going_ to happen. Maybe what I'm seeing is the future, and now everything I'm doing is racing towards that. That this is... I don't know, some sort of self-fulfilling prophecy. That Vandal Savage is going to wipe me from existence and it's all because of this."

Slade's expression is remarkably controlled, all things considered. He weathers the storm of Bruce's inane rambling with absolute confidence, and Bruce feels a weight lifted off his shoulders.

He's never told anyone before.

Sure, he's talked with Alfred about the dreams, but not like this. He's never admitted his fears: that the dreams aren't just dreams, but _reality._ That they're true in a way he doesn't yet understand. Despite his fears, Slade isn't treating him like he's nuts for suggesting it. If anything, he appears to be taking it perfectly in stride, treating the whole thing like it's a perfectly ordinary thing.

As if _visions of the future_ are nothing out of the ordinary.

"Hard to say," Slade says after a moment. "You're probably not going to get an answer until you confront him and get your hand on that egg, though. I assume our next step is going to be to go raid that castle of his."

Right. The next step. Bruce's emotions are swirling, refusing to settle down, but he tries to focus on the then and there anyway.

"I'm going with you, of course. I..." He knows, without question, that it has to be him. "I'll use the company jet, take it to the closest large airport. I assume you can be discrete?"

Slade shoots him an unimpressed look at the question.

"And the people watching your house?"

Crap.

Bruce had honestly forgotten, and he reaches up, scrubbing at his face with his hands.

"Your thoughts?" Slade _is_ the expert, and asking him seems like a better plan.

"Have me clear them out."

Bruce shoots him a look. He knows what Slade means, and he is _not_ having Slade mow them down.

"We don't even know who they are. They could be innocent people. For all we know, they're paparazzi wanting to know why I have a beard now."

Slade rolls his eye at that, and his disbelief is clear.

"Do what you want, Wayne," Slade says with a wave of his hand. "But it's your man's head if they decide to attack the manor while you're gone."

He's not wrong. He can't leave until it's resolved. The idea of leaving Alfred at risk is damn near unthinkable, but he's not sure how to handle it either.

Once again, he's forced to ask the expert.

"If you were going to go _non-lethal,"_ Bruce says pointedly, "how would you handle this?"

"Go now, while they're focused on the house. Sneak up and grab one of them. Figure out who hired them and go after them. Quick and easy."

Bruce knows it's going to be anything but quick and easy, but he lets himself imagine anyway.


	8. Chapter 8

Bruce parks his car in his spot at Wayne Enterprises before joining Slade in his for ease of transport. One car is enough: two cars is to many.

Before they make their way to the manor, Slade opts to dump Riddler. He picks a shady motel, unloading Riddler from the trunk while Bruce stays in the car, and vanishes inside with him. Bruce doesn't get to hear what Slade tells him, but when Slade slips back into the driver's seat of his car, it's clear he's pleased with himself.

"Riddler won't bother you."

"I should hope not."

Slade makes a point of parking a ways back from the manor on a secluded dirt road that is, as far as Bruce can tell, only ever used by park officials. It's isolated, but close enough to the manor grounds they'll be able to walk, and when Slade turns to him, Bruce knows he's being serious.

"Mask," he says flatly. "You're not going out there with your face uncovered. Period."

"I wasn't going to argue."

Slade reaches over, popping the glove box and retrieving a sealed cache. Ripping it open, he produces...

A fabric Deathstroke mask. Bruce squints at him, almost disbelieving, and Slade simply snorts.

"It's a spare. If you're worried about it being _unwashed,_ it was cleaned since I last used it."

"I wasn't worried about _that,"_ Bruce says, pulling the mask on over his face. "I was simply noting your... style choices."

The orange clashes with the black of his suit, but he'll make do. It's not as if anyone's likely to see him, so he supposes it doesn't really matter.

"How much training do you have?" Slade asks skeptically. "I'd run you through some drills if you're going to insist on coming along, but I don't think we have that kind of time. The longer we linger, the more likely it is they'll find us."

"I can handle myself," Bruce says, popping the passenger side door and stepping out. "Alfred insisted I be able to protect myself if someone tried to assault me, and he made sure I had the best tutors money can buy."

There's no question why Alfred would go to such lengths, but Bruce is happy for it. It's made him confident enough to handle things like this. It means he doesn't have to be afraid.

"We'll see," Slade says simply, locking the car behind them before retrieving his bag from the back seat. He's fully suited up, helmet (and weapons) and all, and while Bruce looks warily at the amount of gear he's packing, he keeps his mouth shut.

"You'll want this," Slade adds, almost as an afterthought as he hands over a small baton to Bruce. A simple enough weapon, and not one Bruce is _insanely_ familiar with, but at least it's better than his bare hands.

Slade is the professional, he reminds himself, and he knows Bruce's terms.

They head up the hill towards the manor grounds, silent as a ghost. Slade doesn't seem to make any noise at all, and Bruce has to put in a concentrated effort to keep himself quiet. He simply doesn't have the experience—or the training—that Slade does. The best he can do is try to keep up.

They work their way around the property, and Bruce keeps his eyes open. They're not spotted, but Bruce does spot others—three or maybe four armed men, lurking in the woods around the manor. Interestingly, they appear to be facing outwards, but Bruce can't figure out why, and it's not until Slade stops, crouching down well away from the guards, that he finds out.

"They're watching for people coming in," Slade says. "How many did you spot?"

"Four," he guesses. Better to overestimate than underestimate.

"There's six, but better than I expected. Private security team, if I had to guess. If the circumstances were any different, I'd have assumed _you_ hired them, but the fact that you didn't is... concerning."

They're acting almost like guards, and Bruce can't put it together. Alfred certainly didn't hire them, and he can't put two and two together. Why them? Why _him?_

"What are we doing?" Bruce asks before his brain can spiral out of control. In the distance, Vandal Savage makes his normal walk forward, passing right through a tree and out of sight.

Bruce tries to ignore the hallucination, his attention going back to Slade.

"You're going to watch my six, and _I'm_ going to take them out."

"Non-lethally."

Slade looks deeply irritated by his reminder.

"Non-lethally," he confirms. "I'm not an idiot. We don't know who these people are, and killing them could backfire. I don't just kill _everyone,_ you know."

"Just a reminder."

Bruce can't actually _see_ Slade's face, but he's sure the other man is rolling his eye as he turns away, getting ready to go.

Bruce follows behind and witnesses something he'll never forget.

Slade is just one man. He should barely be a threat against a pack of likely highly trained mercenaries. But Slade is worth every dollar Bruce spent on him, and it's all Bruce can do to keep up.

Because Slade is something more than human as he works: he's a force of nature, poetry in motion. He seems to glide from target to target, dispatching them with a minimal amount of effort. It's like watching a performance as Slade disables each opponent. The first and second he knocks out. The third he breaks the arm of before pinning him down. He gestures for Bruce to hold him, and Bruce moves forward, pinning the man carefully, covering his mouth to silence him as Slade goes to handle the rest.

Up close, Bruce is that much more sure Slade is right: the men are professionals, some kind of _professional security company._ The kind of place he'd have hired to guard the manor if he thought he was in danger.

He doesn't have much time to think about it. Slade falls back, returning to Bruce's line of sight, and everything seems to go _slow._

Two men are engaging him directly, and a third is coming at him from the side. Slade seems busy with the two he's fighting, and Bruce isn't sure in the moment if he can even see the third at all.

So he acts.

As fast as he can, Bruce throws the baton at the third man. He's not aiming for pin-point accuracy: he's just aiming to _hit._ The impact alone will be enough to draw Slade's attention, no matter what it does or doesn't do to the man he's hitting.

Bruce nails Slade's attacker in the shoulder, hitting hard enough to make him jerk to the side. Slade doesn't even look, just spins right where he stands, his foot catching the man in the side hard enough to physically throw him.

The man goes down, and Slade, smooth as silk, handles the other two. It doesn't even take a full minute for him to get the last one, holding him in a choke hold until he finally passes out. Bruce has a strong feeling they'll all be feeling awful the next morning, but none of them seem critically injured, which is a genuine relief.

"You did well," Slade says, and Bruce can't figure out why just hearing it makes a shiver go down his spine. "Better then I expected from someone without any real training."

"I told you I could handle myself."

"And so you could."

Slade reaches down to the man Bruce is pinning, his hands ghosting along his sides until he finds what he's looking for: a radio. He holds it up without even seeming to think about it, signalling for Bruce to be quiet and then clicking it on.

"I have your men."

There's no response, and Slade simply tosses the radio to the side, reaching down and producing a small vial from one of his pouches. He sprays it in the face of the man Bruce is holding, and the man slumps in his arms after a few seconds, apparently knocked out.

"...Weren't we going to question him?" Bruce asks. He reaches up, pulling his mask up just to let Slade see the raised eyebrow that Bruce is giving him.

"Don't need to. They aren't going to know anything: professionals like these will get told the job and nothing else. They're not going to know who's paying them, and I'm not interested in tracking down their boss and shaking it out of him. Easier to deal with it directly: they'll have some kind of a response team set up to deal with a scenario like this, and _they'll_ have the answers."

Bruce can only nod. The whole thing is alien to him—he's only ever dealt with the other side of things, being _protected_ rather than _protector._

Assuming that's what these men are doing. He genuinely can't tell, can't wrap his head around it.

Slade leans into his space rather suddenly, and Bruce tips his head up. Slade's helmet is tipped back, showing his face, and his smile promises trouble.

"You could make a job of this," he says, promising a whole lot more then that from his voice alone. "I don't do _teams,_ but I'm sure I could be convinced to show you a thing or two and get you started."

Bruce isn't sure what comes over him. Slade's just _there,_ lingering in his space, his eyes all but glittering with the promise of trouble to come.

So Bruce kisses him.

It's a surprise to Bruce—even though he's the one doing it—but apparently not a surprise to Slade, who handles it with far more grace then he should be able to. He leans into it, one arm wrapping around Bruce's back to pull him closer, and Bruce swears all the blood in his body goes south all at once.

It shouldn't. He shouldn't like it. Shouldn't care about the fact that Slade's kissing him back. As much as he wants to blame the adrenaline from the fight, it's impossible to blame it purely on that.

In the end, it comes down to the simplest of reasons: there's absolutely no pretense with Slade. Slade knows who he is. He knows Bruce's great big horrible secret. There's no need to pretend, no need to be someone he's not. He doesn't have to play into exhausting social obligations. There are no expectations, and it feels impossibly freeing.

It doesn't hurt that under the helmet Slade is _extremely_ attractive, either.

"As much as I'd like to make good on all my flirting earlier, we've got company coming," Slade says. Bruce assumes he means _sometime soon someone will be dropping in on us,_ but it turns out to be a great deal more literal when Slade pushes him away, reaching up to pull down his helmet as Bruce scrambles to get his own mask back in place.

Someone's coming right _then,_ and the last thing Bruce needs is for his mind to be focusing on the way Slade's lips tasted.

But it's hard not to.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again - the fragment of Bruce's dream is more or less straight out of the source.

"Go right."

It's all Slade says, no explanation or elaboration, but his tone is so sharp that it's clearly an _order,_ and Bruce responds instinctively.

He darts right right as a projectile—not a bullet, _definitely_ not a bullet—zips past in the shadows.

Sneaking up on people in the dark was one thing. Being snuck up on in the dark feels like something else entirely. It feels _unfair,_ and Bruce decides then and there that he no longer likes it.

He runs.

There's at least two pursuers, because one splits off to go after Slade, who's taken a hard left, and the other goes after Bruce himself. They seem small, light and agile, and they dodge around trees like they're nothing.

And Bruce, to his frustration, _doesn't have a goddamn weapon._

The baton is right where it landed after he tossed it. He never took the time to pick it up, which means he's barehanded and pursued by someone who is most definitely not. It's entirely possible they have a gun, although if they do they're using it only sparingly. Possibly they don't want to risk alerting the people at the manor (just Alfred, but it's unclear if they know that).

He hopes that's true, because he does _not_ want to get shot in the back.

Or anywhere else, for that matter.

He thinks he's gained enough of a lead to try something, so he darts to the side, forcing his pursuer to follow him blind around the corner. He does it twice more, and then stops abruptly behind the tree.

It's the oldest trick in the book, but it's the oldest trick in the book because _it works._ His pursuer is going full speed to try and catch up to him, comes right around the tree, and Bruce sticks his arm out and clotheslines the bastard.

They go down hard with an obvious _oof_ of pain, and Bruce doesn't give them a chance to recover. Even without weapons, he knows how to fight with his fists, and he catches his pursuer across the face.

Maybe he's broken the guy's nose. Either way he's made the guy hurt, catching him off guard, and—

It's a kid.

Or at least that's as far as Bruce's brain gets, his entire body freezing for a half second too long. The kid—really more of a teenager—clocks him across the face, and Bruce has to catch himself to stop from falling to the ground.

His head is spinning. He's trying to make the connection, trying to put the pieces together, but he's too late. The young man he's fighting isn't going to stop and give Bruce a chance to figure out the meaning of what he's seeing; instead, he drags Bruce into a chokehold with a surprising amount of strength, kicking Bruce's knees out from under him to get a better grip.

It's not good. 

Really, _nothing_ about the situation is good. Whatever chance Bruce had of winning the fight went out the window when he found out that his opponent was a kid. He can't fight them like that. He can't _not_ pull his punches.

And unfortunately for him, the _kid_ he's facing appears to be highly trained enough to handle whatever Bruce can throw at him even in the best of circumstances.

"Deathstroke!" The young man's voice is mostly hard steel, but there's a note of panic that Bruce can hear up close. "I have your man!"

Something sharp presses to Bruce's throat. It isn't enough to cut, but the pressure's enough he isn't going to be able to forget it... or squirm away, either.

"Funny," Slade's voice calls from somewhere nearby. "I could say the same thing."

There's something slow and methodical about the way Slade steps out from behind a tree. He _does_ have the kid's partner, hauling a grown man along like he weighs nothing at all. There's a knife to the man's neck, and Bruce wonders if the only reason that it's not _in_ the man's neck is because Bruce told Slade he was supposed to go non-lethal.

He's starting to wonder if that was a mistake. The knife (or whatever it is) against his throat is definitely making him reconsider.

"The difference is," Slade drawls, casual as can be despite the seriousness of the situation, "is that a goody-two-shoes like yourself isn't going to cut the throat of a man whose identity you don't even know, where as _I_ will cut his throat with impunity and we both know it."

The man holding him apparently takes the wrong part of the message to heart, because the hand that isn't holding the knife darts up, grabbing the top of Bruce's head and yanking.

He catches some of Bruce's hair—unpleasant—but mostly does what it was intended to: pulling the mask off in one go, revealing Bruce's face.

Bruce doesn't get a chance to think about the implications—the situation is confusing enough as is—before the man that Slade is holding lets out a wheeze.

_"Bruce?!"_

That voice—

_"Ollie?!"_

There are a few seconds of stunned, confused silence, and then Slade tips his head back like the absolute bastard that he is and _laughs._

All Bruce can think to himself is _this can't be happening._

Because the man Slade is holding is, without even the shadow of a doubt, Oliver Queen. He's dressed in what looks like green leather, almost a Robin hood motif, and beneath the green hood that's only half-pulled up, Bruce can see his signature beard.

In fact, the whole outfit looks almost like—

"Now that we've got introductions out of the way," Slade says, interrupting Bruce's thought process. "The kid's going to let _my_ man go, or else I'll open poor Queen here up and make a mess of the forest floor."

"That isn't necessary," Bruce says immediately, but it doesn't matter: Oliver's partner is already releasing him, backing away quickly as Bruce gets to his feet. He's going to have even more bruises he'll have to explain away somehow or another, but right then he has to focus on the present. "Oliver is a friend, he's not a threat."

"His partner just had an arrowhead to your throat, Bruce."

"It was a misunderstanding."

Oliver's still on his knees, a knife still to his throat, and the sight of one of his oldest (if not _the_ oldest) of his friends bothers him immensely. 

"Let him go, Slade. He's not going to do anything."

Even in the dim light Bruce can see the way Oliver's mouth twitches. He sure as hell _wants_ to do something, that much is clear, but he's holding himself still.

Slade doesn't move, and Bruce's eyes narrow.

"Slade." He tries to make it sound as commanding as possible. He's Slade's _boss,_ no matter what just happened between them. He's supposed to be in charge, even if it rarely feels like he is. "He isn't a threat."

Slde takes a long, slow moment to consider what Bruce has just said, and then finally pulls the knife away, releasing his grip on Oliver's shoulder. Oliver reaches up, rubbing at the thin line Slade's left on his throat, but there's no blood, and when he stands he seems largely unharmed, beyond being a bit dirty from rolling around on the forest floor.

"How the hell did _you_ end up buddied up with Deathstroke?" Oliver asks, drifting immediately to the boy who had held Bruce. Roy, he realizes abruptly: Oliver's foster son.

It brings up a lot of questions that Bruce doesn't know how to handle. He's heard, in a very vague sense, about Green Arrow. About the vigilante who does what the police can't (or won't). He's never given them much thought, but now, faced with the truth that the Green Arrow is _goddamn Ollie,_ it's hard not to.

"I hired him to look into the theft," Bruce grumbles. He's happy for the darkness, which is doing a half decent job of hiding his embarrassment. "When you said you would look into it, I thought you meant _legally._ I didn't think you two would cross paths."

"We saw Deathstroke—" Roy starts, only to stop when Ollie silences him with a wave of his hand, taking over the conversation himself. 

"Bruce, you don't know what you're messing with here. That man is _dangerous,_ and no matter what he tells you—"

"I know he's dangerous," Bruce says. He's trying not to growl at Ollie, but he sounds like he is anyway. "I'm not going into this blind, I know what I'm dealing with."

Oliver turns, pacing as he always did when they were younger, and drags his hand through his hair.

"You know what? This is fine. We've sorted things out, you know what to expect, and we can call this done. You don't need to screw around with Deathstroke—we can handle this ourselves, just the two of us."

Roy looks mildly offended, but Slade's the one who takes the cake.

"Butt out," he snaps. "This was _my_ contract, and it has been since day one. I'm not losing out on a payday because you decided to stick your nose into this."

"Then _I'll_ pay you to get out of here," Oliver says. "Your contract with Bruce is done. He doesn't need to deal with you now."

Oliver and Slade are both glaring daggers at each other, and it's obvious despite the masks and helmet. Bruce is genuinely worried they're going to come to blows if he doesn't do something soon, but all he _really_ wants to do is sit down and take a moment to process.

"There's no danger to Alfred," Bruce says flatly. "This was all a misunderstanding, which means the job is done. I don't need people guarding me from nothing, and you're going to need to clear things up with the men you hired, Ollie." Beyond that, Bruce hates the idea of getting someone so young involved. Roy should be at school, not on the far side of the country kicking Bruce's ass on a misunderstanding.

"And the egg?" Slade asks, folding his arms over his chest. "What about that?"

"I'll handle it myself."

"A terrible idea," Slade says, right as Ollie lets out a noise of distress.

"You can't just go off and deal with this yourself. You have basically no training—"

"I can handle myself," Bruce objects immediately.

"You just had your ass kicked by a teenager!"

Slade's expression seems to be growing darker by the second as the two argue, and Bruce can't blame him. The situation is an absolute disaster: Slade's getting stiffed out of his contract, but also Oliver's concerns are entirely justified. Slade _is_ dangerous, and with no understanding of what they've already discussed and been through, he must seem that much more so.

"This is _my_ situation," Bruce says, raising his voice for once. He's angry, and he's pretty sure he has every goddamn right to be. "Oliver, deal with your people and go back home. You should be focusing on Roy, not getting involved in this sort of thing with me." He resists the urge to lecture Oliver on what the _hell_ he's thinking, bringing Roy along for this. No one under the age of thirty should be going _anywhere_ near someone who goes by _Deathstroke._ "Deathstroke, thank you for your assistance in this matter. You'll find the payment in your account tomorrow morning, but the matter is resolved."

The matter is _not_ resolved. Bruce still doesn't have the egg, and he still doesn't have his answers. He's still liable to hallucinating scenes from his dream, and he'd bet every dollar he owned that if he skipped his medication he'd have the same dream again that night.

But having Slade's help isn't worth risking his friendship with Ollie. The situation is too tense, too liable to end in bloodshed. The only way to deescalate is to stop the situation entirely, and that's what he's doing.

"Go home."

Oliver glares at Slade. Slade glares at Oliver.

Oliver is the first to break, looking back to Roy and gesturing for him to follow. Bruce ignores that he's left his car over at Wayne Enterprises, turning away and starting towards the manor.

Slade remains where he stands, watching Bruce go.

Bruce _knows_ it isn't over, but right then it's all they can do. The situation's changed, he tells himself, and no matter _what_ he was doing before Oliver showed up, that's over now.

Even if he wishes it wasn't.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again - from 'it's in there' to the end of the chapter, the dialog is from the comic, with some edits.

Bruce doesn't sleep that night.

It takes hours before he actually manages to get any rest at all, and even then it's interrupted almost immediately by a dream.

By _the_ dream, even though his pills should have kept him from having any dreams at all.

It's different, though: more vivid. Vandal Savage is standing over him, his face twisted with fury. He's wearing some sort of elaborate suit of pure white armor, so white it seems to actually _glow._ His face is fully exposed, his hair blowing in a wind that Bruce can't seem to feel. Vandal's hand is holding onto Bruce's shirt, dangling him in the air like a rag doll.

The world around them seems to fall away. Everything is swirling colors, almost opalescent in nature. There are people around them, people lying on the ground. They're hurt, but none of them seem familiar to Bruce at all.

They should. He knows they should.

"After all that, the ring chose me!" Savage bellows. "This ring would have been mine _years ago_ if not for you!"

His right hand is raised in a fist, and for the first time Bruce gets a clear view of the ring. There's no egg in sight, but that doesn't seem to matter: only the ring, massive on Vandal's giant fingers, seems to matter.

"For getting in my way, I am going to wipe you from the universe, Batman! No one will ever even know you existed!"

Bruce wakes up.

He's soaked in sweat, panting heavily. The dream is still there, practically _burned_ into his memories. The dreams always slipped away when he woke, always fallen away bit by bit as the seconds tick by, but for once it lingers. It's vivid, almost more real then reality itself.

He doesn't want to believe it, even when faced with what feels like the obvious truth of the situation: that what he's seeing is a truth. That someone—him?—was wiped from reality.

Maybe he's Batman. Or maybe Batman is someone he knows, someone significant to him.

Someone who is now gone, wiped so thoroughly that no one even knows they ever existed at all.

Bruce ends up leaning over the side of the bed, dry heaving his way through a wave of nausea. He feels like his guts are turning inside out. 

He can't wait any longer.

Bruce rolls out of bed and heads to the shower, stripping down to nothing and turning up the water until it's nearly scalding. He needs to be awake, and he hasn't had nearly enough sleep. He doesn't bother with trimming or shaving, simply pulling on some clothes and packing a go bag.

He wakes Alfred as late as he can, rousing the old man from a good night's rest.

"Master Bruce...?" Alfred looks mystified as he wakes, rubbing at his eyes. "You're dressed."

"I'm going to catch a flight out right now," Bruce says. "It'll be a few hours before I reach Europe, so can you be available in... seven, eight hours? I might need you to play mission control for me."

Alfred only looks _more_ confused after his explanation, sitting upright and pulling his pajamas a bit tighter around himself.

"But where...? I simply don't understand, Master Bruce."

"My dream is... it's real, Alfred. It's something that really happened, whether here or... some other place. And I need to go get those answers. I know where I'm going. I know what I'm getting into. So I just... I just need to go."

Alfred looks so small and _distressed._ He's afraid for Bruce, and Bruce hates that he's worrying him.

"I'll be safe," he tries to reassure him. "I'm going to leave now, but I'll call you when I land, alright? Get some rest."

"I couldn't convince you to stay...?" Alfred asks, but even without Bruce answering, Alfred clearly knows the answer, since he immediately slumps back down. "Take care on the way to the airport, and I will endeavor to be available when you land."

Bruce catches a flight to London because it's fast and has space in first class. He tries to sleep on the flight, but he's constantly being roused by parts of his dream (even if only _sometimes_ are they actually dreams). He's practically a dead man walking by the time he makes it into Heathrow, and it feels like a mercy that no one seems to recognize him.

He checks in with Alfred once he's on the ground, sitting down in the airport and trying to figure out the closest small airport to his actual objective.

"You sound exhausted," Alfred tells him as they go over the details. "And I would like to express my doubts once again."

"I have to get to the bottom of this, Al. I need to know what it means."

"I was worried you would say that. I should, however, inform you that Oliver called a few hours ago and asked how you were."

Bruce feels stiff at the thought of Oliver. Probably worried, and rightfully so. He hasn't really done anything to reassure him, and there's been nothing but stress on Oliver's plate since Bruce admitted to the whole _I am hallucinating what may or may not be an alternate reality or possibly a vision of the future._

"And?"

"I told him that you were resting, which I believe he accepted as the truth. I told him I would tell you that he called."

Alright. Bruce can... well, deal with that later. There's nothing he can do for Ollie right then.

"I should also inform you that Mister Wilson called as well around an hour ago."

Ollie calling is pleasant. Slade calling is... concerning.

"And?"

"I told him that you were resting after a long night, and I don't believe that he bought it for even a moment. He told me to inform you that you had a six hour start beginning when I called, and after that, in his words, he was going to go to Europe himself, take the egg, and that you could buy it off him for every dollar you're worth."

Oh.

Well, so much for any chance of there not being hard feelings between them.

"You said that was an hour ago?" Bruce asks, setting a timer. Slade's fast, and even if he's giving Bruce a head start, Slade has a _lot_ of experience and options that Bruce doesn't. "I'm going to need you to guide me while I handle this if we're going to beat him to it."

Alfred makes one last halfhearted attempt to convince him otherwise, and then gets down to work.

Alfred manages to find him a flight leaving immediately which will get him close enough to his final destination that he won't have to fly again. More importantly, he _also_ has at least one contact in the area, and sets about arranging things as quickly as he can. When Bruce lands an hour later (five hours to go on Slade's head start), Alfred directs him to rent a car and head to a small out of the way shop owned by a friend of a friend.

The friend of the friend is all too willing to sell Bruce what he needs: climbing gear ostensibly meant for climbing sheer cliffs but more reasonably meant for climbing something flat like the wall of a building. There's grapple hooks and some high tech suction clamps, and Bruce ends up dropping more than a thousand dollars before he leaves, content that his money will buy the man's silence.

He drives for almost an hour to the closest possibly launch he could use, and then rents a small inflatable raft. The sun's starting to sink as Bruce loads his gear in, head out on the mercifully calm water.

"I feel like a spy," Bruce mutters into the headset Alfred talked him into.

"Good, because you more or less are. You are aware that what you're planning—breaking and entering—is illegal, yes? There could be serious consequences if you're caught."

"There will be serious consequences if I don't go," Bruce says, absolutely convinced that it's true.

The castle that Vandal Savage calls his home is modest by the standards of castles and massive by the standards of houses. The rock beach goes right up to the base of the wall, and Bruce makes good use of his new gear as he scales the side of the building. The suction system makes it almost laughably easy, and that's probably the only reason he doesn't end up falling to his death when a ring goes zipping by before vanishing abruptly.

His hallucinations—or whatever they are—are coming more readily.

"It's in there," Bruce mutters to himself, half-forgetting Alfred's still on the line. "I know it."

"Master Bruce, as much as I have enjoyed this chance to dust off some of my old field training... I think this has gone too far. I know that Slade Wilson was a little aggressive for your liking, but there are others we could hire to retrieve this without you getting your hands dirty."

Bruce hasn't told him what happened with Oliver and Slade, and left to his own devices, Alfred's drawn the exact wrong conclusions.

"It has to be me, Alfred."

He doesn't think he could stop if he tried. He couldn't just sit down and wait for someone else to do it for him. Not anymore. Slade _maybe,_ but that bridge feels burnt.

"I wish I understood why, Master Bruce. I wish I could... understand what is happening."

"Me too, Alfred."

He slips in an open window, confused about how easy it is to enter. There doesn't appear to be any security, or any sign of anyone about as he heads through the old, well decorated halls. The entire place is silent as a grave, and Bruce hopes that isn't literally.

"You just have so much to lose. If you were caught... and that's setting aside this _Savage_ fellow himself. If something happens—"

Bruce doesn't listen to the rest of what Alfred's saying, his attention caught because all he can focus on is the sight in front of him: Vandal Savage sprawled out on the ground, perfectly still.

Bruce worries he might be too late.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a bit of dialog is inspired from the final issue of Batman Universe, but with this, we're officially out of comic book territory!

Vandal Savage's home is built in a style that Bruce wants to describe as _pretentious,_ but really is just _outdated._ It's multiple (mostly two) stories wrapped around a large stone courtyard that might have been appealing looking if it had been decorated in something that was actually interesting. The centerpiece—a massive stone fountain that barely seemed to be running if it was running at all—was really the only thing of interest. There isn't a plant to be seen, and the only color is coming from the rapidly sinking sun.

Vandal savage is sprawled in a manner that Bruce would describe as _dramatic_ across the steps at the base of the fountain. He's dressed in some sort of white robe, and when Bruce looks closer he notes that there's some sort of light coming from his right hand.

Bruce has never been one to stand back and observe. Not when someone could be in danger, even if that person is someone who may or may not be a literal criminal mastermind.

So he plays dumb, the only defense he has.

"Vandal Savage? We, uh, we've met before. A party for Luthor a couple of years ago. I'm here— well, I'm here because I was compelled to. I've been having dreams—waking and otherwise—about you."

He rambles, but there's no response. He gets all the way to Vandal's side and the man still hasn't even moved an inch, and when he bends down, touching him lightly, he notes two things.

One: Savage is still warm, and seemingly not dead.

Two: He is almost _definitely_ not faking it. It's almost as if he's asleep, but when Bruce nudges his head there's no response.

"Sir, are you alright?" Alfred says in his ear.

"He's not responsive," Bruce begins. "I'm trying to wake him, but—"

Vandal's arm jerks, his right hand raising. The light is coming from right near his palm, the light so bright Bruce can't even see what's happening. It's only when the light shifts that Bruce realizes what he's looking at, his mouth falling open as the ring—the ring from his dream, so bright it's difficult to see—slips off Vandal Savage's finger and onto his.

He is compelled, frozen in space. Even if he wanted to move his hand, he couldn't.

"Sir?!" Alfred asks, desperate and alarmed, and it's all Bruce can do to respond.

"Alfred!"

Everything goes white.

He's no longer in Vandal Savage's home, standing in a courtyard by an overly grandiose fountain. All there is is _white,_ not pure light but almost pearlescent. He's standing on nothing, surrounded by nothing, and he's wearing...

He doesn't know. Looking down at himself gives him no answers. He's in some sort of armor, the ring still on his finger, and Bruce swears under his breath as his mind tries to process what even is happening to him.

 _"Please_ tell me you're real."

The voice comes from behind him, and Bruce spins in place, the armor unfamiliar and strange to him. Maybe thirty feet away, Vandal Savage stands, perfectly healthy and very much awake. He looks, more than anything, tired, and Bruce doesn't know what he's supposed to think about that.

"...Savage?"

"I seem to have found myself trapped in an endless void with no space or time. It's off-putting."

The questions pour out. There's nothing else to distract Bruce from them, nothing but _questions_ that he so desperately wants answers to.

Savage has to have them.

He has to.

"Where are we? What is this?" He gestures with his hand, the ring obvious and prominent. "Who are you to me?"

The white of Bruce's armor begins to dissolve, leaving him in some sort of dark-grey gear instead. The ring is abruptly gone from his finger, and right back where it was in reality: on Vandal Savages.

He lifts his hand, the ring starting to glow, white on white in the void.

"You warned me. You warned me this ring was a broken nightmare, and I returned the favor by erasing everything you were from existence. The fact that you're still here at all is astounding, but the fact that I obviously need you to solve this is infuriating. It hardly seems fair."

Savage clenches his hand into a fist, the white getting ever brighter, and then shakes his head.

"Welcome back."

All at once, Bruce _knows._

His life plays out before him at a million times the normal speed. He remembers his parents dying. He remembers taking a solemn oath to make sure that no one else would suffer as he had. He remembers all the terrible things that came after: Two-face, Riddler, Penguin, the Joker, Mr. Freeze, Killer Croc, Bane, Anarky, Catwoman, Man-Bat, Poison Ivy.

But he remembers the good, too.

He remembers taking Dick into his home. He remembers raising him and being there for him and being, in all but blood, his father. He remembers Dick, first in red and then in blue, joining Bruce's fight. He remembers Barbara Gordon taking up arms as well. He remembers Alfred's happiness at having a _family._

But everyone else, too. Clark and Ollie and Diana and Hal and Victor and Arthur and dozens and dozens of others. Allies. Friends. People who fight the same fight in different ways.

He remembers Gotham, rising from the darkness. He remembers hope.

He remembers Batman.

It all comes back and the feeling of it—the _knowing_ —is all too much.

An entire life, ripped away from him by Vandal Savage.

Because he remembers that too: he remembers his initial discovery of the egg, and the dangerous power within: a White Lantern Ring, old and impossibly broken. Powerful enough to warp reality itself, and sealed away for the safety of the universe.

And in the hands of a madman.

On sheer principal, Bruce punches Vandal in the face. There's no real reason for it (Vandal isn't offering up much of a fight), but it's impossible to deny the feeling of rage welling up in him. Even if he's put things back, even if he's himself again, the fact is that Vandal took almost _everything_ away from him.

"You!"

"I've been chasing this broken ring for hundreds of years... and now it has trapped me in here with you. If you think I haven't been punished for doing this to you... I promise you that I have. The ring wouldn't allow me to kill you. It failed instead."

A Guardian of Oa—small, blue, and little more than an artificial facsimile of a woman who lived thousands of years ago—appears at the mention of the ring. Their voice is a flat monotone, but the information is undeniably valuable.

"You are protected by your oath to the Green Lantern Corps. Because you made the oath and are still bound to the ring, no Green Lantern ring could cause you harm, including this one."

Vandal curses under his breath, and Bruce tries desperately—not for the first time, he remembers—to reason with the broken program intended to control the ring.

"You are a broken construct from an ancient program. Release us and shut down."

"Now that your ring is secure, the ring can open portal doors in space and time to help the Green Lantern Corps secure justice across the great—"

A door appears, a window in space, and Vandal bolts.

Bruce is right after him, hot on his heels. The portals aren't working the way they should. They don't take them to one place and time, but instead _throw_ them across space and time. Bruce runs through the portal into a desert, something exploding in the distance. A blink, and he's in a lab, a man turning to gawk. He all but falls through the next portal, socking Vandal across the jaw as they pass through what might be Themyscira. Bruce doesn't know: the only thing that matters is stopping Vandal and getting the ring back.

In the wrong hands, it could destroy everything. Just because the ring protects _him_ doesn't mean it protects anyone else.

They tumble through the last portal into the void of space and Bruce feels the most excruciating agony he can imagine. It lasts only half a second, the ring slipping off Vandal's finger, and Bruce reaches out, desperate.

He has to have the ring.

His gauntlet grasps it, and with a flash of white light he's suddenly back where everything started.

"Woah!" Dick calls from nearby.

Bruce feels... unreal. He's having a hard time grasping what's happening, two completely different sets of memories at war with himself. He's Batman, but he's also Bruce Wayne, a man who never put on a cowl, never went out to fight crime.

He is both and neither.

"I'm back on Vandal Savage's sub," he tells himself desperately, trying to ground himself in the moment. "The Green Lanterns are here, and so— so is Nightwing, he's here too."

"Batman, we'll take the ring from here," Tomar-re says, swooping down, his ring already glowing green. Bruce is all too happy to let him, holding up the faulty white ring and allowing it to be encased in a protective bubble.

"Please. Take it far away from here."

He's never wanted something so bad. He wants the ring destroyed. He wants it _handled._ Anything but being allowed to continue existing, a ticking time bomb that could obliterate the universe.

"B?" Dick's voice is soft, concerned. Simultaneously intensely familiar and completely alien. Dick Grayson is Batman's son, partner, and closest friend, but Bruce Wayne—the other half of him—never even met him. He never went to the circus, never witnessed the fall.

"This world knows there's a Batman?"

He isn't sure why he asks. He knows the answer, but it's difficult anyway.

"What?" Dick looks more confused and alarmed by the second, and Bruce can only shake his head.

"Never mind."

"But what about Vandal Savage?" Dick prompts. Around them, the Lanterns are starting to leave, swarms of them taking off to guard the ring on its way to safekeeping. Maybe some of them will stay. He knows Jessica and Kyle are there, but there's no telling if they'll linger on Earth for any period of time. "Where did he go?"

"I... I'm not sure."

"Well, he didn't get his prize, and he didn't take over the universe, so I'm going to count that as a win for us," Dick says. He bends down, retrieving the egg from the floor and inspecting it.

It's just an egg. A glorious, extremely valuable Faberge egg, but nothing more. There's no longer an impossible treasure hidden inside. Being able to possess it no longer decides the fate of the universe.

Bruce almost wants to keep it, just to remind himself that it's real, but he knows he can't.

"We should put it back," Bruce says simply, holding his hand out for Dick to hand the egg over.

"...Are you sure you're alright?" Dick asks again. He leans in, inspecting Bruce's face—clean-shaven, another jarring realization—and apparently coming away satisfied.

"I'm fine."

It's a lie.

Bruce isn't fine, but it will be a while before it sinks in. Before the reality of it comes home to roost.

"You... you don't remember that at all, do you Dick?" He asks quietly, and Dick's eyebrows shoot up.

"You really _aren't_ okay, are you?" Dick asks. "You never call me that while we're in costume."

He doesn't answer the question, and Bruce knows what that means. Everything that happened—an entire other world, an entire other _life_ —happened for him and him alone. No one else remembers the lives they lived, and no one else is burdened by the knowledge of what happened there. No one else has seen the possibilities, the _what ifs._

"Lets get this back to the museum," Bruce says.

He does.

That night, before he goes home, he returns the egg to the museum, returning it carefully to the pedestal where it was originally taken from.

But even if he's put the egg back, it doesn't matter: the world as he knew it changed, and even if he managed to change it back, the experience has changed him for better or worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is, of course, going to be a part two: the fallout of all this. Bruce is left with two full sets of memories, and now he gets to decide what he wants to do with it.
> 
> The next fic is going to focus on Slade (as you can imagine from the tags), but also Bruce's relationships with Dick, Alfred, and in particular Oliver Queen (and the rest of the JL).


End file.
